Appointment in Savannah
by cuddyclothes
Summary: An old cotton gin is eating tourists in Savannah, Georgia. But Sam has his mind on other things, like not getting strangled. Or cursed. Or anything else. Sam Winchester, OC. Written for spn bigpretzel's anniversary par-tay. Prompts: cursed, road games, cramped, strangled.


The psychologist leaned back in his large leather chair. The office windows were open, and the sweet Savannah air floated in. He steepled his fingers, folder in his lap. "So, Mr. Winchester, what brings you here? And why are you so concerned that your brother doesn't know? Does he live nearby?"

Sam could barely squeeze into the smaller leather chair across from the doctor. "Dr. Penzance, I've been having some problems lately relating to my job. It's the routine, you know? It's starting to get to me. It's getting harder and harder to get out of bed."

"Many people have that problem," the doctor observed. "Have you thought of changing jobs?"

"Oh, god, yes!" Sam couldn't help laughing. "You have no idea!"

"So, tell me what part of your routine is getting you down? Mr. Winchester, there are ways to learn new approaches, to frame your experience differently."

There was a long pause before Sam spoke. "I hate getting...strangled."

"Excuse me? I didn't catch that."

"I hate getting strangled. I'm tired of being thrown into walls. I'm tired of being cursed—I mean, my entire family is cursed, that's why they keep dying. But other kinds of curses. My brother's gotten cursed, too, which is a bitch when you're sharing a motel room with a guy and all you want to do is lock yourself in the bathroom before Cas shows up and—and babbles some Enochian and Dean's okay again. And I'm really, really fed up with getting the shit kicked out of me and knocked out. My brain probably like a football player's." Sam gave a rueful smile and put out his hands on either side, a nonverbal _see what I mean_? "I was studying to be a lawyer, but then I got pulled back into the family business."

Dr. Penzance seemed unperturbed by Sam's confession. "You must have amazing physical resilience."

Sam smiled. "Yeah. Both me and my brother."

"And you say you live together in a motel room?"

"Motel rooms. We travel all over the country in an old car, and I've gotten too tall to be comfortable in it. And my brother with his damn road games. He's like a little kid! He counts license plates and tries to guess how many Kansas plates we're going to see in an hour." Sam covered his face with his huge hands. "And he sings 'One hundred bottles of beer on the wall.' Over and over. Dr. Penzance, I dream of sitting in a plane, looking out the window, with enough leg room and complete silence." He paused. "How come you're not freaking out over all of this?" Sam's body tensed and he reached for the gun in his waistband.

"Relax," said the doctor with a reassuring smile. "You're not the first hunter I've had as a patient. You heard of me through another hunter, or you wouldn't be here."

"Yeah. He's a hunter named Garth."

"Ah, yes, Garth. Hunters need someone to talk to who will keep doctor-patient confidentiality. It's a rough life, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"You love your brother, yes?"

"He's the only family I've got."

"But you want to kill him half the time, yes?"

"You have no idea." Sam rubbed his face. "I love Dean, doc, I really do. But I've had a taste of waking up in the same bed every morning, clipping hedges, sitting around reading something other than supernatural lore—I finally got to read 'The Great Gatsby'! My brother's still pissed at me about it."

"Perhaps you should come in for family therapy."

"NO! I want to have my own problems for a change. Do you take insurance?"

Dr. Penzance gave Sam an incredulous look. "Health insurance from a man who has innumerable false identities? No. _No_ checks, _no_ credit cards, cash only. And if you don't pay, there are other hunters who will look for you. You do understand, don't you, Mr. Winchester? It's the cost of doing business."

"Yeah, I get it. You know the game."

"Very well, I'm sure we can come to an arrangement. How long will you be in town?"

"Probably six weeks on this job. There's an old cotton gin that's eating tourists. After that, I don't know."

"We can start with twice-weekly, then. I do phone sessions as well, Sam."

"Thank goodness."


End file.
